Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jackson
T he island is the last of the Ethereal's places in the mortal realm—consider it a retirement home for titans, a storage locker for gods. The Garden of Eden, Tower of Babylon, Labyrinth of the Minotaur, and hundreds of others were relocated and placed here to be hidden and protected from mortal interference. It's also the birthplace of Scythe, the place where Death brought his first apprentice and taught the first reaper his trade.
Using a nearby tree, we'd awkwardly scaled the wall and were now walking through the Garden of Eden. The repressive heat is milder here, and the trees, flowers and plants that surround us are rich and vibrant. Millie is looking around, eyes wide, marvelling at the beauty all around her. Me, I'm watching her—the soft awe on her face, the spark that has returned to her eyes.
“This place is so beautiful.”
I smile, turning around to look at her properly. It forces her to stop. Her face is gentler now, the anger fading.
“I know these aren't the best circumstances,” I say cautiously, “but I'm glad I'm getting to show you this.”
She looks at me, and I can't read her expression, but a ghost of a smile passes across those rosy lips, and I get a glimpse of the Millie I usually see. The one who doesn't hate me. Then her eyes harden, and she shakes her head.
“And I wish I had my camera,” she says sharply before walking past me and deeper into the Garden. “Where exactly are we going?”
I catch up with her, pushing tree branches out of her way as I walk by her side. She glances at me in a way that tells me I won't be getting any thanks.
“There's a back entrance to Death's old place, hidden in the far wall of the Garden. Trust me, we don't want to announce to everyone that we're here.”
She frowns, turning her head to look at me.
“You think someone here wanted Death gone?”
“I don't know. He's the most powerful of all the Ethereals, the original, so to speak. What's happened shouldn't be possible. And that's why I choose not to trust anyone right now.”
She raises an eyebrow and walks in silence. I can feel the tension radiating off her, a question desperate to pour from her lips.
“Maybe it's a good thing?” She turns to me, her voice a little more than a whisper. I can barely hear it over the faint buzzing of insects, the sultry breeze stirring the fresh leaves. “No more death, no more suffering. Maybe it doesn't have to be the end of the world?”
She stumbles on a root, and I catch her arm to steady her.
“Trust me, there will be plenty of suffering. Resources will run out in a matter of weeks. No food, no water, no medicine. People in pain, with no end in sight. No way of knowing if it will ever end. Doesn't seem like a good deal to me. The people I reap, some are ready for their lives to be over. They've lived long lives, happy ones for the most part, and now they're in pain, their bodies weak, their minds shutting down. Death can be a kindness.”
She falls silent for a moment, her lips tightening, concentrating hard on the ground.
“Do you think … do you think Mum would have felt that way? Glad, I mean?”
She looks at me, her bottom lip quivering, and I want to tell her. Tell her I know exactly how her mum felt when she passed over. That I know because I was there, that I was the one who put my fingers to her flesh, commanding her heart to take its last beat. I should tell her the truth, but there's no coming back from it. If I tell her, she'll never stop hating me.
I know that better than anyone.
“I'm sure she was glad not to suffer anymore,” I say carefully. “But no one would ever be happy to leave you.”
I'm a coward, but I'm not ready to lose her completely. Not just yet. She smiles tenderly at me, warming my insides, making me feel like I can do anything. The way her smile always makes me feel.
The Garden opens up into a wide clearing. Rays of sunlight catch butterflies and floating pollen as they drift, making the air shimmer. The flowers, all blooming and ablaze with colour, fill the air with their heady perfume. I feel light-headed with beauty. Millie gasps. At the centre is the most innocuous of features: a humble apple tree. Not that there's anything humble about it—it's the Tree of Knowledge.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Yup.”
“Is it time for a snack break yet?” She grins up at me, and I chuckle.
“Trust me, we do not want to eat those.”
“Ignorance is bliss?”
I snort.
“You think hellhounds are bad? Wait until you piss off an angel.” I shudder at the memory of my last run-in with one of those self-important seagulls. I take her hand, pulling her reluctantly across the clearing, her eyes never losing sight of those gleaming apples as we move towards the door.
“Come on.”
“There are angels? Really?”
She's laughing as I tug her away from the tree and back into the trees. And that's when I hear it, a faint but unmistakable screech above our heads. The sound turns my blood icy.
“When I say go, run, OK?” I whisper to Millie, keeping my pace steady, not wanting them to know I've realised we're being followed.
Millie turns to me in confusion, her body tensing. I hear wings brush the tips of the trees above us, and I know they're close.
“What is it?” she mutters under her breath.
“Someone knew we were coming.”
She inhales sharply but nods. I keep us at the same pace as I try to pinpoint exactly where the sounds are coming from, trying to count how many will come for us.
Too many.
“Millie …” She turns, her eyes wide. “Go!” I grab her hand and launch us towards the wall.
“Come on!” We race through the trees, throwing ourselves over roots and fallen branches. Sweat drips from my forehead, my lungs on fire. The heat is like running through honey, and my legs soon feel like iron rods. I hear them over our heads, their fierce wings beating hard, their sharp, shrill voices travelling through the trees.
“Run, little ones, run!”
They laugh and cackle.
“Fearful hearts make the blood taste sweeter!”
Millie gasps, but I don't have time to look at her. I just keep pulling her forward, towards the door. Apart from the flap of a wing and the occasional glimpse of a claw, all we can hear are their loud, cackling voices. Through the thick lushness of trees, I make out the outline of a wooden door—ancient and rotting. A scythe carved into its oak heart.
“There.” I point. “Now hurry!” Seeing the door gives me a final push, and we bolt forward, out of the dense trees and into the clearing ahead of the wall. I can't see or hear them, and I'm praying we've lost them.
Half a dozen wings pound against the wind, blowing their rotten scent into our faces as they land right before us—an unmovable barrier between us and the door. Still holding Millie's hand, I pull her tightly to my side. She gasps in horror, clenching my hand tightly.
The Keres stand before us—demons of death, vultures of violence, devourers of suffering and pain. Their yellow eyes flash with malice; thin lips twist into sneers of pleasure. Black oily blood drips from their shattered teeth, down skin coated in a film of filth. Lank hair, knotted with dried flesh, falls to their knees. Inky wings, twisted and knotted like dead trees, are spider-webbed with scabs and holes of rot. The six of them block our path, laughing and cackling in front of us.
“Awww, little ones, you almost made us sweat; you did.”
“Such fun! Such fun!”
“Can you smell it on him? Oh, that smell.” One of the Keres lifts her head, her nostrils flaring, pleasure seeping into the dirt-filled lines on her face.
My stomach heaves.
“Of mud and blood, and young men's fear, of death.”
“Shut it, hags,” I bark, their words stripping the flesh from my bones. A thousand sensations and memories force themselves into my brain as I battle to shove them back. My leg itches from an invisible scar.
“I've missed the smell of fear. Look at her; she reeks of it!”
Millie is next to me, shivering, though her eyes fixed on the Keres with a steely glare as they watch her, grinning wildly.
“Such a pretty thing. Can we play with her first? Oh, please?” The Keres closest to Millie turns to the one in the centre. Nyx, their leader, just glares at me.
I clench my jaw, my anger growing.
“You lay one finger on her …”
They all burst into a shrieking cackle that knocks me silent.
“Listen to him! Listen to him! He thinks he has power here; he thinks he's just like his …”
“Enough!” Nyx roars, her voice a growl that silences the others. Her amber eyes burn as she stares at us. Flakes of blood drop from her rags as she turns to the others.
“They're waiting for them. We're taking them now!”
The rest of the Keres growl, gnashing their rotten teeth at us, clicking their black-tipped claws. I turn to look at Millie. Her face is frozen as she quickly glances back at me. And then we're surrounded by a haze of wing and fang. The rotting scent of decay makes me gag as Millie cries out next to me. I feel claws pierce my flesh, lines of blood travelling down my shoulders, and then they're lifting me from the ground. I flail about, but their grip is relentless. When I turn, Millie is suffering the same fate. The fierce beating of wings is like a pulse in my ears. As the ground below us fades from view, the golden temple, bathed in the light of the red sun, grows closer, its inhabitants waiting for our arrival.